


Ave Satanas

by formeldehyde



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse
Genre: Gore, I'm an Antichrist sympathizer, M/M, Sadism, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-01 16:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16768585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formeldehyde/pseuds/formeldehyde
Summary: How did Michael lose that boy that he'd once been? What made the dark so tempting? Michael didn't feel evil, not at first. He fought the urge to blindly follow the clear path paved for him. He pleaded to Dr.Harmon that he wanted to be good. This is how the darkness took him.





	1. Bloody Beginnings

The morning Michael woke up two feet taller and ten years older, the first thing he felt was the ache in the back of his calves as his legs hung over his bed frame. The first thing he saw was the weeping face of his grandmother. Constance looked at him like was an alien and only when he stood, seeing his height, did he understand her tears. He ran and locked himself in the bathroom. Only when he faced the mirror while the shower ran, did he see. Steam clouded the bathroom, fogging the unfamiliar reflection staring back at him. He felt like a child still, in his heart. And, like any child would be, he was horrified. He cowered from his body, but it didn't feel like it was his anymore. It belonged to someone, something, else. 

As a child he'd wanted nothing more than to show his love, to show everyone what he could do. He latched to Constance's leg with neediness only a broken child could have. He knew he was destined to do something, but before the plan he had the ability to understand he was doomed as well. There was no way, with the fear in his grandmother's eyes and the darkness around his heart, that he'd last. He'd needed to live those first few years of life as human as he could be. Video games were never enough to sate his boredom, and so the carcasses piled up. He hadn't felt bad about killing them then, they were nothing to him. 

With the new body, his thoughts seemed different too. He was less of a child, in the obvious ways yes, but he felt focused. There was a new voice in his head something dark. He noticed it immediately. That urge that had him skin defenseless creatures and slit the throats of the over enthusiastic nannies, took his youth from him. It gave him this sense of urgency, importance, he'd been transformed to do something, what that was, he didn't know. But whatever the reason for his monstrous behavior, he knew he had no choice in the matter. That made him angry, no it drove him mad with blind rage as he tried to choke his grandmother while she slept. Michael hated her the second he wrapped his hands around her fragile throat. He lashed at her for lying to him all those years, trying to reign him in, telling him he was perfect and good. All the confusion over his body, his purpose, all of it made even less sense with her in the picture. She tried to control him, just like whatever did this to him, he wanted free. He wanted out and she kept him on a tight leash. It was time to cut the cord. 

Her persistent survival from his attempt on her life shocked that child in his chest that was mourning for the lost of any hopes she had for him. Any hopes he may have had for himself. All Michael truly gained from Constance was the heartache of finding her body. She abandoned him, the day he was changed. He had no direction, no explanation to his sudden aging, no family, nothing. He'd wanted to die then. He thought about finishing of the rest of Constance's pills and kill the parasite that'd overrun his body. His heart was already claimed for hell with the blood of his sitter and the priest. But again, he thought cutting the cord before he disappointed his grandmother even more. But, as he stared at his new face in one of the old mirrors, behind him he saw visions of nurses soaked in blood and screaming. As he turned to find no-one, he thought he may be in a dream. A nightmare, really. As he moved closer, observing the sharp angles of his face, the length in his hair and the muscle in his arms, he cried. Constance had always complemented him, called him perfect, called him angel, beautiful boy, but he didn't feel like either of those things now. He felt wrong, dirty, unnatural, unloved.

After that, even though it was Michael's birth that had taken Vivian from this world, Ben took him in, protected him and Michael was left with the enormous task of admitting that he was awake. That this horror was real. But it was only the first night he spent in that house and his unconscious brought him dreams so vivd he feared they were real. Prophecies of some kind. 

He saw fire, smoke, smelled rotting singed flesh and tasted blood on his lips. All he could see when he closed his own reflection in the mirror, and his face slowly morphed into something different. Different even from his older appearance now. It was inhuman, no indication of Michael existing inside its translucent skin. There was no soul in those ichor black eyes, no man has rows of teeth like a animal, nor spiraling horns that ripped through his forehead in bloody eruption. The pain made him cry out.

The room was dark, but as Michael sat up gasping for air, he could see even in the pitch of night that the door was opened. He didn't sleep for days. Vigilant in his attempt to rid himself of the horrible visions he'd received. When he did pass out from exhaustion, the darkness of sleep seemed to grab him like hungry hands. 

The whispering spirits wouldn't stop. They latched onto him and wouldn't let go. They used him as a leech, draining any promise for redemption Harmon may have seen in the cold blue of Michael's eyes.

He tried to be a teenager, learn how to be the age he looked. It wasn't difficult, his mind was functioning higher now than it ever had, Ben tested him with patterns and quizzes, smiling brightly and proudly when he passed with soaring colors. He was close to being a father, and it was clear Ben needed Michael just as much as Michael needed him. He wanted to raise him, make him good, keep him pure and angelic like Constance had called him despite his proclivity for the morose. Despite the darkness that clung to him like a vice.

"I want to be good," He'd cried in searing tears, kneeling by Ben's feet after he found Michael in the backyard, holding the neighbors dog in his arms. It's limbs were all cracked and broken, it's head hung limp. Ben brought him upstairs, asked him why, but there was no reason Michael could give. He'd collapsed onto the ground. He did want to be good, he'd meant it. But honesty was subjective. Any change in perspective and that truth becomes distorted. Michael wished he could be good, in that moment. He wished that he hadn't killed that dog, it hadn't done anything. Michael knew there was good in the world but he kept finding himself overwhelmed with the evil. Righteous anger flooded his veins and that meant he would never truly want to be a part of the society he was growing to hate so much.

"Michael, you can't let your impulses control you, you are good- there is so much good in you. You just have to fight the parts that aren't." Ben leaned back, looking out the window down to the backyard where the mutilated corpse of the mutt lay. "Even if you feel like giving up, you can't let yourself give in." How Michael'd broken and twisted it like that, he didn't know, but the earnestness in Michael's plea distracted him. How he could be so kind, so sensitive, Harmon didn't understand. It was almost like a switch in the kid's brain. While it was off, he was remarkably bright, talented, and respectful. But the moment the switch was flipped, he was capable of cruelty beyond belief. 

"I'm sorry," Michael rested his head on Ben's knee and wept. He was ashamed by his own actions, his own impulses. No His golden curls being pet gently by the man who was never his father but who tried his best to be one. He talked Michael down from the ledge, begged him to not make himself blind to his own humanity but that house, oh it was blood soaked and just begging for the darkness in his veins to indulge. 

Michael gave in without being aware of it. As he began to search into those dark corners and down the basement stairs. Let himself see the horror, the massacres that took place where he was born, the bodies buried where he was being raised. He learned about his father. 

He rifled through old boxes and books, dug himself into the horrors posted online for all the world to gape in fear. Michael was intrigued by the comments. The thousands of people damning those souls to hell for their 'unspeakable acts'. It made him laugh, and he was beginning to think there may be one person-well one spirit, that understood him. That shared that darkness. Reading on his cold mercy, how he gave no answer to why he'd done what he did. Michael knew why. 

Tate's rejection was no real surprise but it still stung. Actually, it felt like a mass of bullets to his chest. Like his sternum cracked open and his heart'd been burst open. Tate shot and killed 14 people without mercy but he screamed to Michael that he was an evil beyond a mass shooter. That he was not his true father, that he was a monstrosity. Michael expanded his understanding from this realm to the next, from the other spirits that haunted the premises. They sung to him in his sleep, the words of their dark stories sunk into him. They called him abomination, he was neither man nor spirit, alive nor dead, witch nor demon. He'd killed his mother, ate his brother and he was born of infidelity, not only out of marriage but out of the natural order, on top of the gates to hell. 

Michael understood that he was born for darkness, but what that meant he was still blind to. He'd slipped on the suit and slaughtered the newly weds mercilessly. Their blood was hot, he could feel it even through the latex. He'd missed the rush, he'd never been high or been fucked, but he knew no sensation could compare to the flood of power he felt from their lifeless corpses. When they rose again as spirits, the anger boiled. When Ben tried to tell him to stop, he nearly laughed. There was no room for him, Michael flung him across the room. He looked to the women standing over their bodies, and hated them for being in this house. This castle to gore and suffering, while they were painfully kind and generous. He was enraged and as his skin burned hotter, his thoughts turned darker, the lights in the house flickered and he could almost hear the darkness calling him. Deep chants and ancient tongues flooded his mind and with the wave of a hand their souls caught flame and burnt to ash.

When they all gave up so did he. He sat in the lawn and smoke a cigarette from a pack he found in Tate's room. He thought a lot. His new mind was so expansive and alien he spent hours, and went through the whole pack as he pondered purpose and pain. When he finally tried to sleep his mother tried to kill him and he had no hesitation to let himself reach into the bloody pits and pull hellfire out to wrap around his bed. Destroy her for her only purpose was to be the womb for him to infest until he could be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world.


	2. Worship Like a Dog

The house got hotter after that, like the burning of that couple had never ended. Michael wasn't bothered by the heat, he barely even noticed. Just flipped on a fan and slept in his briefs at night. The basement was where he spent most of his time, playing doctor or laying in blood soaked tubs. It made him feel at peace almost, like he was being true to himself and night fighting a meaningless war against his own needs. That's what they were to him, necessity. Killing was no hobby and torture was no pastime, without it he felt his boiling blood would burn him from within. 

It wasn't too long before he grew bored with the limits the house placed on those needs. How he felt shackled to the floorboards. There was only so many tragedies to lose himself to there. Michael gutted the Dalia girl so many times it became dull. She was dead, her blood was cold and she never really felt the pain of what he was doing. He knew he needed live flesh, he needed the pleas and screams for mercy. That was always the best part, the fear in his sitter's eyes, the shock as the priest's jaw hung open wide like he couldn't believe it was happening. Those people never expected it, that's what made it so tempting.

Michael took the bus to the closest nightclub, something underground and grimy. He may've aged ten years but he still looked like a child, the ripped black jeans and tight shirt didn't do much to convince. He was buzzing, but he kept his excitement contained while he waited in the short line toward the door. The adrenaline of hunting men like a predator was intoxicating. The bouncer asked Michael for an ID but he found himself choking on his own tongue while the giggling boy slipped inside unnoticed. 

It was in the club that Michael learned of his beauty, of just how quickly people will ignore their most basic instincts, those gut feelings, for a pretty face and a smile. Lust was something he was trying to understand, the primal desire to rut like wild animals was something no advancments in society could rid man of. Every person alive had their own sinful desires, and what kind of world tricks people into believing such a thing to be off limits? When it is completely necessary. Of course it's not the act itself that society cowers at, it's the depravity of it, it's the gluttony that humans condemn under false ideas of control. Lust is a sin to them, and sins were something Michael found himself growing obsessed with. How they love to indulge in what they, themselves, call depravity. Their 'guilty pleasures' as they call them. He'd always hated that phrase, and the fact that guilt was nothing but a hinderance. 

Michael was relaxed, leaning against a column not too far from the stage. He absorbed the identities of those around him, hearing their desires in hushed, hissing tones. Their neediness was plastered over their face and their minds were one track. Most were thinking 'love me', 'fuck me', 'look at me', or some iteration of attention seeking. People were wholly selfish, only begging for validation so they forget the emptiness in their hearts that they pretend aren't there. 

That's what it was really about for Michael. The control, the power. He let them come to him, never approaching first. He moved to the bar and watched the cinema around him, the women sloppily hanging on each other, the men prowling over them like hungry wolves. Each person's eyes were full of frenzy, pupils wide, high and letting their artifices slip away. The music was loud and the only light among the swelling mass of lusting bodies was a deep red neon that seemed to soak the room in blood. Michael was lost in thought when the bartender caught his attention, waving in front of him with a tattooed hand. Michael smiled, "Yes?"

"This one's for you, pretty boy." She said, red lips spreading into a grin as she slid him a beer, gesturing to the older man from across the bar. He felt nauseous, the smell of Crown Royale was burnt into his nostrils from memories of finding Constance in a pool of vomit. He'd taken it anyway, downed it and ignored the man who paid for the drink, despite his pathetic attempt at conversation which Michael waved off, in favor of placing himself amongst the sheep.

The alcohol burned his throat, made his stomach warm. It was fleeting though, one beer was nothing, his mind was still painfully goal oriented. He'd looked around, fairly disappointed by the options. Mostly loose girls and cowardly men. So many stereotypes it made him waltz back to the bar in near anger. He had no knowledge of drinks but he guessed he'd follow in Ben's footsteps, "Old fashioned." He smiled at the bartender. 

"Coming right up, I take it the beer that perv ordered for you didn't do the trick?" She laughed, flashing a crooked-toothed grin as she finished his drink. 

"Not exactly," he said, taking the drink from her hands, maintaining eye contact. Her irises went glassy and she froze still while Michael thanked her for the free whiskey. She nodded, up and down slowly before turning around like she'd never talked to Michael in the first place.

He laughed as he took a swig of the drink, cringing at the taste but still finishing it off. The drunker he got, the more those dark urges claimed him. He felt the effects of the whiskey in a daze of burning desire for blood and flames. Tonight he would have warm flesh to mutilate, but he had to be patient. Michael had to be careful. 

"A shot of tequila please." Michael heard a soft voice say, he let his eyes flicker to the boy next to him. Dark black hair, fairly short, tattoos and piercings. He was short and slim, almost too easy of a target; Big brown eyes and the adorable drunken flush over his pale skin. He was attractive, though. Some part of Michael realized this, almost objectively as he turned himself to face the boy. Leaning against the bar smiling, he noticed Michael as the bartender poured the shot. "Two shots actually," he added, pulling out a chair and taking a seat, attention now on Michael as he smiled and offered the small glass to him. 

Michael smiled as the boy extended his hand, offering up a "Cheers" before they both took their shot, laughing as they groaned at the taste. "My name's Ezra."

"Michael."

"Nice to meet you, Michael." He smiled, swaying slowly as if he was entranced completely. He was, after all. Physical beauty was something that held a lot of power, it was a way of making up for other flaws in society's eyes. If you can't be good, maybe you can be beautiful. If you were beautiful, you got what you wanted. Michael fully intended on getting exactly what he wanted tonight. 

"You too, thanks for the shot." He smiled and stood up, feeling the world spin a bit under his feet, his stomach leaping into his throat as he almost fell back, before the small boy grabbed his hand and pulled him up. 

"Woah!" Ezra let out a laugh. "Almost lost you there, Michael." 

"We wouldn't want that now would we?" Michael shook his head, ignoring the brief embarrassment in favor of the beauty of this all. His drunken state assured this boy would never suspect anything, would even feel the need to take care of Michael and make sure he got home safe. It really was too easy.

"Of course not..." Ezra stood up shyly, scratching the back of his neck. "Wanna dance?" 

Michael simply took his hand and led him into the crowd, putting himself back in control. He'd attracted, now he had to seduce. In all honesty, that part came the hardest to him. Michael never understood flirting, or relationships, he just understood people. What they were afraid of, what they wanted, what they hated. Ezra was shy, but there was something in him far more sinister than his doe eyes may have you believe. Once they made it to the middle, those eyes got dark, his grin subsided and he popped a pill into his mouth before wrapping his arms around Michael's neck. He swayed his narrow hips to the beat and Michael followed suit, grabbing Ezra's waist and pulling him in. The world around him was fuzzy, but he was still focused. The way Ezra felt against him made his heart pound and when Ezra got close enough to smell the tequila on his breath, Michael held his ground despite the desire to lean in and kiss the stupid grin off his face that was surely due to the molly and liquor in his blood. Ezra leaned in, kissing Michael like it was the last thing he'd ever do, which it pretty much was.

Michael let himself go as they kissed, still dancing and surrounded by people. Too many people. After that, everything fell like dominos. Ezra offered to pay for a cab back to Michaels, and in the darkness of the witching hour he didn't recognize the cathedral to horror they walked into. He was desperate, Michael knew. But it wasn't just a fuck Ezra was hungry for.

"I want you, please," He begged as Michael pinned him against the door, arms above his head and baring his neck so beautifully.

It took all of Michael's strength not to reach into his back pocket and slice that pretty white skin open and watch the blood drain down the boy's throat. "How bad?"

"Fuck," he bucked his hip as Michael slid a delicate hand up his thigh. 

"You're sensitive..." Michael whispered, more to himself but the boy whimpered in agreement with his words, looking up at cold blue eyes. He felt connected to him, not in love, but in the way the snake stares into the eyes of its prey before striking. He was so soft, so lovely and delicious. "Take off your shirt." There was darkness, Michael could see it in dark scars that covered Ezra's wrists and legs. Such a perfect, broken, boy. He couldn't help but tease him before the ultimate betrayal. 

"What made you do this to yourself, Ezra?" He understood hurting people who've wronged you, he understood when he killed the priest who tried to teach him the ways of God, none of which made any sense given the little knowledge he had being on the earth not even a decade, technically, despite the growth of his body. But hurting yourself goes against all natural instincts. The driving force for something like that was guilt; a feeling created by shame of denying some basic moral. 

The boy flinched as if Michael'd hit him. "Uh-" Ezra turned from his gaze, Michael understood one thing: his shame. He was embarrassed, not at them being seen necessarily but more at them being addressed. Given the deepness, the darkness and utter mutilation of the boys thighs and wrists, it was clear pain was a driving force. Michael knew he'd made the right choice for his first real, planned kill. 

A voice erupted from him that he'd never heard as he growled, "Tell me."

"Fuck me and you'll understand." Ezra smiled, grabbing at Michael's hair and pulling him in. Michael resented being submissive in any way but he quickly grabbed Ezra's small wrists and pinned them above his head, kissing him bloody, sinking his teeth deep until the other boy whimpered in pain, but bucked his hips up desperately. 

"You like the pain?" He'd asked in awe. A masochist was a breathtaking thing, he learned. Ezra whispered into Michael's ear a desperate plea of 'hurt me'. It was an invitation for so many opportunities but the boy would get far more than he bargained for. 

Michael pulled away, "Undress."

"Yes sir."

Michael liked that. He'd never been addressed as a superior in any way, but the way the boy said it made him feel like a god. Knowing anything he said, the boy would do willingly, was something completely new. Most people resisted, fought tooth and nail to escape any suffering. Ezra went out searching for it, just like Michael. Well, not quite like Michael who was hunting, not laying belly up waiting for something monstrous to rip out its throat, devouring without remorse.

Their bodies melted together in a massacre of flesh and blood, lips split and breath reeking of booze. His brain slipped out of his body as the pleasure pumped through his veins. He grabbed his belt from the floor, scrambling for Ezra's before strapping the boys bony arms to either side of him. 

He'd built him up and as soon as the young man's thin frame was spread naked with his arms tied to the frame above the same mattress where Michael was conceived, he took a blade and plunged it into Ezra's neck. He'd gushed like an erupting volcano, blood pouring from the carotid artery like the flowing of the river nile. But the best part wasn't the blood, it was the shock in those doe eyes, the tears and gasp. Michael took the knife and cut a circle on his chest, a star in the center, licking the pentagram as he watched him bleed out, fucking him like a doll until he finished inside him. 

He was addicted. But he almost wanted this to stand alone as his offering, the chanting of hellish screams was beckoning him. He was meant to exceed Dahmer, Bundy, even Tate, all of them. The darkness inside him was so new and Michael had no doubts this would not be enough to sate the bloodlust he felt, he felt like he was readying himself for a war.


End file.
